


Soul Shards

by Miss_Choco_chips



Series: Soul Shards au [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Creepy Ra's al Ghul, Damian approaches wild souless Tim, Damian is trying, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meanwhile, Ra's is trying so hard to be this kid's sugar daddy, Soul shards au, he'll try to fix his mistakes and learn to be better along the way, jaw theme song intensifies, living his best life, really he is, souless Tim, souless Tim takes the cash and runs with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28884330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Choco_chips/pseuds/Miss_Choco_chips
Summary: If his Grandfather viewed Drake above Father, then maybe Damian  was going about this the wrong way, in his quest to surpass every Robin before him. He needed to succeed where even Father had failed, reaching to a step below Drake instead of the entire flight of stairs he had ahead of him.He needed to do what not even the Batman could achieve.He would bring Drake back.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, future possible Tim Drake/Damian Wayne
Series: Soul Shards au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118252
Comments: 8
Kudos: 137





	1. 11 - 16

Damian’s first gifted soulshard came from his mother, when he turned five. It was a beautiful orange-red dagger, with flecks of gold here and there, and he wanted to hold it more than anything in the world.

Then his mother put it in his hand, closed his fingers around it and held a kitten by the scruff and hind legs in front of him, as an offering. An order. A mission. And, once it was carried, the slightest hint of satisfaction in her eyes.

Those were the feelings the dagger was imbued with; expectation, and pride. Not for who he was, but for what he did. A heavy weight, and a cold one, right until the moment the mission was complete; after that, a short-lived warmth crept up his arm, the starting point the dagger in his hand.

Or maybe it was the kitten’s blood what chased the cold (and his sleep) away. It should have been comforting.

It wasn't.

When Grayson chose him as his Robin, he sealed the deal by giving Damian an R shaped soul shard in the form of a brooch. It should have been an ecstatic moment for him, his second ever soul shard being gifted to him by his Batman. 

It wasn’t. 

While warmer and lighter than his dagger, it felt… off. Their bond was just growing then, no trust nor love giving shape to the soul given away. Instead, Damian was presented with Grayson’s feelings of responsibility (to the city), despair (because they both have just lost their father) and reluctant resignation (because even when Grayson choose him, it was obviously not what he wanted, it couldn’t be, not when there was already a Robin fully indoctrinated in The Mission perfectly available and… more loved), as well as the barest hint of hopeful fondness. 

He doesn’t hold it against him; that was just their beginning, and it was the gesture what was important, a gift from the soul that Damian hadn’t yet earned, a trust at giving himself away to the child he had just decided to take under his wing. Were Grayson to give him a new soul shard, he was sure the feelings wouldn’t be so harsh now that they had formed and nurtured this bond between them. Still, he treasured his brooch for what it was: a chance to prove himself, a chance at a home.

Drake’s soul (not a shard, not a piece, but the remainings of his _actual_ soul; his **core** ) was an entirely new phenomenon. The moment he received it, clenched it in his hands for the first time, it was imbued with a rage and contempt that didn’t surprise him, as those were the grounds of their relationship. But, with every passing minute, the feeling just… calmed down, like… forgiveness? Acceptance? It was like a pat on the back after a hard patrol with Grayson, after he made a mistake and the man would just sigh and tell him ‘do better next time, but let’s just put this behind us’. But… from Drake?

It- that was- there weren’t actual words to explain it. Damian had never heard of it, of a change on the emotions inside the soul, but, he supposes, this wasn’t something Drake had sharded with an idea in mind, this wasn’t a love confession or a methaporical friendly hug. Drake had just… given himself away, entirely.

Damian wasn’t sure what it meant, but the mystery of that pushed him relentlessly to the batcave, to the monitors where he would watch and rewatch old footage of Drake’s training, read old reports, dig as deep as he could in search of information that might clear things up for him.

That might explain the clench in his heart when he held the tiny soul.

\---.---

He is missing.

Bruce can't process it at first. He has every camera, every metahuman, every genius hero at his disposal… and nothing. 

No one could find Tim, and he's been gone for over a week. Seven days and twelve hours, if he was counting. Which he was, because seeing the pretty ice blue watch on his wrist, warm with admiration, respect and adoration, slowly turning cold and black was high on the list of the scariest moments of his life.

He was holding his son's soul, but soon it wouldn't feel any different than the Rolex he might wear for a charity.

It terrified him.

The only piece of Tim's soul (and it had taken him a while, to track down everyone Tim ever gave a shard to, even going so far as to dig Janet and Jack's graves, because there were so many pieces; too many) to remain icy blue was Damian's. Which would be fantastic for testing, for figuring out what was wrong, maybe even for tracking Tim down…

If Damian weren't so dead set on keeping it in his direct line of sight, on the little leather pouch by his hip or dangling from his neck.

The twelve year old had proven willing to stab any hand that tried to take his soul shard away, accepting only those tests that were safe and could be made in front of his eyes.

"We could try to, like… mesh my piece of soul with Damian's?", had suggested Dick, once, earlier on the week.

"And how, pray tell, would you do it? Drake himself is the one that shaped your necklace. This are his soul shards, no one but him can bend them to their will."

"I mean… Cass's father, Cain, he made dents and bumps in her soul, so it’s not like its impossible…"

"...after years of abuse, from which her soul has yet to recover! Of all the stupid/!"

Dick, on very little sleep and with worry and guilt battling it out inside his heart, rolled his eyes at Damian’s objections.

"We won’t hurt him for the hell of it, but he could be in danger, or lost, or who knows what! There’s little to no precedent about soulless people. Since when do you care so much about Tim’s wellbeing, anyway?"

"And since when do you _not_?"

That had ended the argument quickly. Guilt had won in Dick. Damian’s gifted little piece of soul remained at it’s pouch.

And Tim was still missing. Bruce wanted to pull at his hair, yell and throw fists.

He did none of these. Damian needed him. He had already failed one son.

\----.----

12 - 17

Life goes on, after a tragedy. And this tragedy in particular was a silent one; there was no blood, no screaming, no tears. Just someone that left it all behind and disappeared on the wind. And, as much as the Bats wanted to find him, Tim going on a solo trip wasn’t alarming enough for them to ignore the day to day dangers of Gotham, the multiverse threats, the alien invasions. As concerning as multiple soul shards changing color and losing emotion had been, the fact remained that it… just wasn’t priority. Timothy could look after himself; the civilians of Gotham and the world at large couldn’t.

At least, that was what father said.

Damian was of a different mind. 

He noticed it at first during a Justice League meeting. He had taken to playing around with the little ice blue ball when lost in thought, or was nervous, a habit developed after hours, days and months sitting by the cave’s monitors studying his predecessor. So there he was, idly rolling it between his fingers, careful to not drop it, when he catches sight of Superboy…

(The Titans were a mess, Wonder Girl, SB and Impulse running around like headless chickens, dropping everything, no matter how mission-important, at the slightest mention of anything Red Robin related, recruiting the help of old fiends from their Young Justice days, hurting so much not even him, usually indifferent to his peers' drama, could remain untouched by their pain)

...being scolded by Superman. Which, would normally not even phase Damian, impartial about the clone outside of his relationship with Drake as he was.

But. _But_. When Superman layed a condescending hand on Kon El’s shoulder, something spiked inside Damian, a sudden and strong desire to slap that hand away, to growl at the man, to protect his/

...his best _friend_?

That thought it’s what gives him pause, stops him mid step, where he was unthinkingly approaching the aliens.

Those weren’t his feelings, but Drake’s.

At the realization, the little soul in his hand glowed and warmed and almost jumped right out of it.

It seemed to say ‘finally’.

Damian couldn’t breath.

  
  


\----.----

He kept quiet about this new knowledge, but it nagged at him. He had to test this out.

He held the small soul while watching Grayson train by the Cave's trapeze. Rolled it between fingers with little to no trouble while covertly listening to Cain and Brown tease each other. Made a protective fist around it when he stumbled across Red Hood during patrol, catching the -now reformed- antiheroe mid flight.

Admiration and yearning ( _teach me, choose me, love me_ ).

Fondness and familiarity ( _bond with me, laugh with me, stand by me_ ).

Trepidation and _want_ ( _please look at me, please stop hating me, please let me watchadmirelove you_ ).

Those weren't his feelings, so. Confirmed then.

Holding Drake's soul, he apparently had an open door to the man's feelings. An insight to the deepest parts of him.

Weeks into his discovery, he learned a few things. For example, how annoyingly emotional the young man was. Did Drake always feel everything this intensely? It was exhausting, and Damian at least had the option to put the soul away at it's pouch, stopping the flow of emotions. Drake… well, he did leave it behind, after all.

Which made him wonder, if he had Drake's emotions at hand, what did it leave his predecessor with?

  
  
  


\----.----

  
  


13 - 18

  
  


It pained Damian to admit this, but Drake was… good. Too good. Unbelievable so, for someone that started his formal training way later in life than Damian.

The footage in front of him was one he had viewed already dozens of times, and he still couldn't believe his eyes. A gift requested to his mother, footage from the Cradle, about two years before. 

At first, Damian had just wanted to uncover the mystery of Drake's time away during Father's absence. What happened during those months, to drive one like his Gradfather from mild admiration to almost obsessive, possessive desire? What elevated the, by the time, teenager to a spot previously occupied by none other than _The Batman_ , and even beyond?

His in into the League allowed him access to the answer. And he _understood_.

The mixture of recklessly brave plans, creatively executed acrobatics, heart-stopping genius and iron clad morals. Fighting against the Spiders, protecting the innocent at his back, all the while under tight schedule on his plan to land an unprecedented hard blow to the League.

It was breathtaking.

The young detective, that unmasked the man many believed was no more than a myth, the novice hero that when told 'no' started his own team of fighters, that while no one else thought it possible defied Death itself for the life of his adoptive father.

Barely older than Damian himself, with half his years of training, and still so far away. Leagues ahead of him.

_Out of his reach_...

A grimace, an unfamiliar tightness in his chest and then Damian was cracking his knuckles and typing away at the computer.

If his Grandfather viewed Drake above Father, then maybe Damian was going about this the wrong way, in his quest to surpass every Robin before him. He needed to succeed where even Father had failed, reaching to a step below Drake instead of the entire flight of stairs he had ahead of him.

_...but not for long._

He needed to do what not even the Batman could achieve.

He would bring Drake back.

\----.----

It takes some time. He studies for weeks under Gordon, shadows Cyborg's steps for a while, even declines patrol once or twice claiming a stomachache when he feels he's close to a clue. Has the Titans permanently hacked (props of connecting from the Batcave's computer, no one questioned the backdoor on their system, assumed it was Batman checking on them) and an alert programmed on his phone for every time some reporter catches sight of the Drake-Wayne heir (none so far, but, like a voice that sounded like Grayson singsonged, _cover all your bases_ ).

And even after all of that, it was still Drake himself that pointed him in the right direction.

Damian was idly scrolling down some online headlines, mind numb with tiredness barely paying attention to the titles, when the little soul between his forefinger and thumb gave him a spark, so sudden it was like an electric shock, sapping him out of it and forcing his attention to the article on screen.

Serial killer known as The Gardener found tied in the front lawn of his supposed next victims, after seven months evading the Parisian police force. Family claims they never saw nor heard anything until the morning, when the father was about to head for work and stumbled across the handcuffed man, hand clutching his signature weapon, unconscious and still bleeding from, what the police assumes, was a short lived fight...

The soul pulsed again. Disgust, rage, adrenaline... pride, vindictive pride. The same emotions that soared through him when a would be rapist fell to his sword during patrol.

Quick eyes scanning through the article, nothing pointing towards a vigilante, no pattern that he could see pointing to his missing predecessor. And still, Damian _knew_.

Energy renewed, he scanned through older news, titles. Nothing sparked the soul, until a thwarted robbery on Scotland gave him pause. Again, the article itself was generic, no common points except the mystery of whoever stopped the crime from happening, but… his gut, and Drake's gut, they were both screaming at him.

This was him. What was he doing on Paris? Was he still there? Two articles, separated by a few weeks, was more of a clue than anyone had found this far, but it was still nothing. And the last one, with the Serial Killer, was from two days ago. Even if he told Father and he dispatched a velocist or super, it'd still be too late. Drake wouldn't have been able to evade them this long if he iddled long somewhere.

Sighing tiredly he fell back into the chair, raising the little soul so it was eye level. After all this time, after all his training, after all of father's efforts to track his wayward son, it was proved only Drake could find Drake. A little, sleep deprived smile broke his scowl. 

He was too tired to feel frustration.

Not too much for admiration, though.

  
  


\----.----

  
  


That same night, oceans away, a slim figure dealt the finishing blow to some wannabe gangsters on a upper class Venetian neighbour. They had been armed, but only the slightest of scratches decorated his arm. The other guys… weren't so lucky. They'd be lucky if their broken ribs didn't pierce a lung.

The scared girls that he saved from being jumped (or worse) rushed forward once their attackers hit the ground, sobbing between their heartfelt thanks and praises. Trembling hands reaching for his cap-less back, the slippery material of his dark shirt slipping from their fingers. Still, he carefully moved out of range and tonelessly told them to call for the police, letting them comfort each other and waiting only until he could hear the sirens approaching. Then, he was gone, lost to the night that had spited him out to fight the treath minutes before. 

On the back of his mind, something told him he should be annoyed. He had been good to keep himself out of the media's attention, dealing with crimes where no one would be able to pinpoint exactly who had been their saviour, or how had they been spared from the danger. Like the Parisian family. Now that was a clean work. Found the killer, guessed his next target and caught him just before the crime. In, fight, out. Easy, untraceable. Two scared girls might not have the clearest memories of their traumatic attack, but 'young, black clothed man fights off gangsters with a staff' would surely make the headlines, which meant hailing ass as far from here as possible before anyone could trace this back to him.

People tracking him raised in his gut… the closest thing to emotions he had nowadays (something he hadn't been bothered with for years now), namely annoyance. He had a goal in mind, rules he played by, things to avoid. Having all that endangered was troublesome, and even worse was how inevitable it was. He couldn't exactly ignore the crying girls, not because he cared, but his body always moved on its own on situations like this, personal preferences overrode by muscle memory.

How inconvenient.

And speaking of…

He barely nodded in acknowledgement when a shadowed figure fell into step besides him, keeping up on his sprint from rooftop to rooftop.

"My Master wishes to extend an invitation to dinner. He demands your company."

Not Pru then, but not so different from what he expected.

He hummed, for show more than anything else, eyeing the leather pouch by the man's hip. A Soul Carrier, nothing flashy but firmly attached. Classic League.

The shadow flinched. They all did. Something in his lack of soul scared them shitless when he payed attention to theirs, as if he would snatch them and steal away with it.

Ha. Please. He didn't even want his own soul back, why in hell would he take theirs? 

He'd never feel lighter before. And even if sometimes the emptiness inside made him eye with attention the knife he carried on his boot as a last resort, those moments were few and easily forgotten.

"Depends. Is he ready to pay for the pleasure of it? It's been a while, I'm on need of cash and resources, so my fee has gone up."

A moment of silence while the shadow listened on his earpiece for his answer. Then, a nod.

"Okay then. Tell him to send me directions to the place once I'm out of this country. And that if he wants me to wear something pretty, he better chose a nice, camera-less place. And if he doesn't keep his hands to himself, he'll need one of those shiny green pools of his to regrow a few fingers."

  
  


\----.----

14 - 19

Todd's emergency beacon called from Tokyo, interrupting their post patrol debrief. Father had programmed all their distress signals so they would always come through, no matter what else was doing on or what Do not Disturb protocols he might have. Nothing would get in the way to saving his sons ever again. 

When they answered, tense and (in Damian's case, reluctantly) worried, it was to the sounds of heavy breathing and clang of metal against metal. A fight.

"/ing hell! Fuck! Goddamned little/ anyone copy me?!"

Father, cowless but every bit the Batman, pressed a finger against the keyboard and dropped his voice am octave.

"Red Hood, here cave, we copy you. What's the situation?"

The sounds of fighting never stopped, and whatever could keep Hood on his toes like this and forced him to call for help was enough to have Damian reaching for his Soul Carrier, where two different (in size and colorthen) spheres guarded each other. It was a habit he needed to train himself out of, but for now, a needed comfort.

"I /shit shit SHIT, YOU LITTLE FUCKER/ I found the bastard! Tim!"

A needle dropping could be heard in the following silence.  _ Cain _ steps as she approached the batconputer could be heard and that was something.

The smallest of the souls in his carriers pulsed at the sight of Brown's distress as she clutched Black Bat's hand, her other going to the almost completely red locket hanging from her neck. If it followed the pattern of both Grayson and Father, it would soon turn dark.

(Unlike the clone and velocist, those two's soul shards still retained the icy blue color, and Damian couldn't help but think it had something to do with the fact that the people that had betrayed Drake the worst were the ones that were losing their connection to him first; Cain's own compass was still mostly blue)

Damian's own soul basically jumped to his hand at the implication of what Todd was saying (he ignored the flash of disappointment that he wasn't the one to find Drake, the little spark of  _ something _ on the icy blue little ball that still reacted to  _ that idiotic Todd… _ ).

Grayson was the one that basically pushed father out of the way, so he could lean over the keyboard, as if that would make him be heard clearer, hand fondling with the chain around his neck that was Drake 's first shard, both to be created and to lose it's warmth.

"A-are you sure? Our Timmy?"

"You have eyes on him?", demanded father as he typed away, faster than Damian ever remembered seeing, probably sending some kind of message to the Justice League for assistance.

"Damn right I'm sure, don't know anyone as annoying/  _ FUCK can't you see I'm on the phone ya lil shit?!  _ I can do you one better than eyes on the bastard, B, I'll put my hands around his weasly lil neck/!"

A window popped on the Cave monitor (of course Gordon was eavesdropping) as Oracle traced the call and hacked the street camera closest to Todd's location.

The figure was all in black, taller and leaner than Damian remembered. Or was that because he spent so much time watching footage of his time as Robin? Drake was smaller then, baby faced and bird-boned. A child. Somewhere along the line, lost in studying his formative years, Damian had forgot the fact that he was a man, now.

He certainly looked the part, now. Graceful as fought Hood off, tough a lot more brutal, if Hood's grunts of pain everyone the shiny staff made contact could be believed. He seemed in a hurry, too, judging by his almost too fast to be seen movements.

The fight moved a little (likely Hood's doing), and they shifted just enough for them to see, in the grainy quality of the camera, a second of Drake's face before before he seemed to sense that he was being watched. Something was thrown the camera's way, a little gadget, and everything turned black. The only connection the Cave had to Drake now was the still going sounds of fighting.

"Hood, tell him to stop! We don't mean him any harm/"

" **_I_ ** do, the little fucker broke my left wrist! Imma gonna show him!"

"Hood!", now not only Grayson, but Brown too, chided.

"Just stall him", commanded Father. "Clark is on his way."

"Easy for you to say! Whatever he's being doing this last few years, it gave him a hell of a boost. I can barely/"

Silence. Not just Hood shutting up, but no more breaths, no more metallic clang. The line had been cut, something that shouldn't been possible after all the upgrades father made to their comms.

By the time Superman arrived to Gotham, an hour had passed, and not even Gordon could re install the connection to either the street camera nor the comm. Not that it would do any good: Hood was unconscious and brutally beated up, and not even a full scan of the city by various metas gave them any hint of Drake 's location.

The icy blue soul pulsed with guilt at hood's state, but also an undeniable pride at the fact that Drake got away. Damian felt like throwing it against a wall. Instead, he cradled it in his hands, against his chest, as he went to sleep that night.

He dreamed of grainy camera footage, the face in the recording handsom and lethal, the coldness on pretty eyes replaced by the emotional icy blue of his soul.

\----.----

He woke up in the morning and laid on bed for a while.

Ignorant on the emotional side of things as Grayson might believe him, Damian wasn't about to lie to himself.

There was no denying the clenching on his gut when the camera displayed the video of the dark figure fighting, the disappointment when Hood failed to bring Drake home, the spark of annoyance at the fact that the tiny soul still reacted to the second Robin, the flash of white warmth that crept up him when he saw the results of Drake's power on Hood's battle wounds.

The craving pumping his heart was like nothing he ever felt before.

It was like seeing his mother holding her soul shard his way, like Grayson hands fastening the R brooch on his cape for the first time, like giving Father a ring and Nightwing a bracelet, nervous in a way that was unbecoming to someone of the Al Ghul's household. 

It was wanting to receive and to be accepted. 

It was more than that.

It was holding Drake's entire soul in his hand, small and battered as it was, and thinking ' _ I'll fix this' _ . It was masterfully twirling it in his hand, easy from practice, letting Drake's emotions wash over him, his fierce protectiveness over his friends, his honest fondness over the family, the growing approval every time Damian cracked a case or figured out a mystery on his own. It wasn't Drake himself, but at the same time it was.

Damian dropped his head back into the pillow and raised the hand holding the tiny soul, his own gold, green and blue one laying on the mattress by his hip. It had tiny specs of ice blue on it, influenced against his will by the soul that shared the soul carrier with for so long now, not too different from the way his mother's orange red soul had some dark blue hues dancing near it's core, or how Pennyworth's silver one had the barest hints of yellow, which the butler once told him were remnants of his first love.

He never would admit to be emulating Todd, but in that moment, he couldn't help it.

"Fuck."


	2. 14 - 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is the sixth time you’ve tracked me down", explained the man, and he felt his heart do a jump on his chest; he wasn’t aware Drake knew. "And after the third, I realized it wasn’t for Daddy or Daddy two-point-oh. You never called anyone, never gave my location away, didn't even try to talk to me. So, I...grew curious. Asked Kon to call your little friend away so we might have a chat. Besides," Timothy looked sideways to Damian and a little smirk curved his rosy lips, "it’s your birthday. Figured it was as good a occasion as any to indulge you. So I’m here, baby bat. What do you want with me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you JUST read last chapter (20/2/2021), I edited the end to add a few scenes I forgot to post the first time lol

The first time Damian lays eyes on Timothy, not a recording or photographs but his actual flesh being, he's in such a rush his brain needs a couple seconds to understand.

What in Hells is he doing at Grandfather's main Australian base?

Damian's feet skip a little when he abruptly stops his dash across the halls, standing open mouthed at the arch leading to the training grounds. There, an oblivious Drake was slowly but steadily working his way across the obstacle course the Australian branch used to hone their skills.

He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing, until the souls at his hip pouch made their feelings on the matter known. His own was scalding hot from all the yearning Damian had been feeling, emotions coming forth at the sight of the one he wished for.

Drake's soul was, as usual, the complicated one. A mixture of want, anger, sadness, fear, adrenaline… Abruptly, a thought crossed his mind, an instant knowledge that left him weak at the knees: The little blue orb wanted to be back with it's rightful owner, wanted to be with Timothy again.

Damian could relate, honestly.

Unaware of the eyes at his back (or perhaps too used to it to notice, if Drake visiting grandfather was a common occurrence), the young man continued his training, strict and unwavering but with a relaxed sort of air around him, like he was in no rush to finish it and keep going to the next move. It was at odds with what Damian had learned from watching years worth of footage of the man, or what Drake's soul itself had taught him by sharing it's emotions on an almost constant basis: he was a creature who thrived on always having a plan following the one currently executing, always a next step, one more to do list. This unhurried, calm, well rested man, muscles loose on the familiar movements of the training course and intelligent eyes lazily jumping from one point to the other, wasn't quite what Damian expected. 

Though, to be fair, Damian only knew about a Timothy with soul. There was nothing, no information, nowhere to learn from about this soulless version of him.

A figure slowly approaching from the corner of his eye kicked Damian's instincts in motion, jumping back from the open arch to a place where Drake wouldn't spot him if he happened to turn around. Tense, he straightened, facing this newcomer head on.

Being find out by his grandfather wasn't surprising, but Damian internally flinched all the same. Without his com, tracker offline for the time being and cellphone left behind at the Manor, there was no way for him to call in reinforcements or inform about his findings. He wouldn't, of course, this was a secret, self appointed mission, and would father find out he'd be in  **_so_ ** much trouble, but since Drake's presence and possible recuperation was worth the scolding, he couldn't help but curse himself.

"Grandson", greeted Ra's, calm as always, a knowing light in his eyes. His hands were clasped behind his back, and although he was wearing comfortable clothes (white shirt, loose training pants, his usual footwear and favorite sword at the belt, no signs of the cape, and soul pouch hanging from his neck by a thick golden chain), Damian wasn't fooled by this facade of calmness. The Demon's head was no foe to be taken lightly, and Damian was underprepared to face him head on, most of his weapons sacrificed for the stealth this mission required, and no allies at his back. "Come, walk with me. Let's leave our beloved Detective to his activities, shall we? It's rude to stare, after all, or so I was told."

There was a lot to unpack there, but Damian simply didn't have the time to dwell on it. He entertained the brief idea calling out to Drake, of asking for help, and though the idea of fighting side by side sent a wave of elation through him, he refrained. The little icy blue orbl by his hip gave a warning poke, and Damian heed to it's advice: even years before, after all that had came to happen between them thanks to Damian's misplaced jealousy and pride, he wasn't sure the other young would run to his aid, and that was while he still had his soul to guide his heart. 

Stiffly, Damian followed his grandfather down the hall, until they reached some sort of tea room, it's aesthetic more at place at a Japanese mansion, with it's low table and cushions to kneel on, bamboo decorations and Sakura tree painting taking the entirety of one wall. To the untrained eye, it seemed they were alone, but Damian was raised among shadows and was quick to recognize when one entered or left his field vision.

"You see, grandson," started nonchalantly the Demon's head, taking the steaming tea cup from a servant after comfortably sitting on the golden lined pillow, "your timing is either a marvel or a curse. You seemed to have come here in search of something, and found an entirely different treasure."

Of course he knew. Under the protection of the table, Damian clenched his fists. Drake's soul gave a comforting wave, telling him to keep his calm. Damian's own orb answered it's thanks with a warm stroke. The exchange, that used to leave him dizzy with how confusing it was to feel two souls interacting, was now a welcome distraction from his nervousness. It was how he imagined having Timothy by his side, fully soul-ed again would feel like. 

How holding his hand would feel like.

"What is Drake doing here?",  _ careful, don't demand an answer, but don't let him lead the conversation either _ , was what he imagined his predecessor would tell him, as if anyone else would have it that easy to interact with Ra's. "Mother told me the League had no leads on his location."

"Your Mother certainly has a good web of spies and informants, but not even she has access to everything that is my domain. The League follows me, not her. Their loyalty to her and, consequently, you, stops long before it breaches the one they have to me, and thus my most treasured secrets are kept safe by my people. Tea?"

_ Don't _ , Drake's soul says.

_ I don't have much of a choice _ , his own answers.

_ Don't _ , it repeats, and Damian is weak.

"I'm not staying long, but thank you."

He waits until his grandfather waves away the servants and has drank twice from his cup before speaking again.

"You never said what is Drake's purpose in being here", he's careful on his reminder. The blue soul seems to approve.

His grandfather looks down at the table, like he could see his pouch through it, and his smile is amused.

"It's amazing, isn't it", he says instead, and he looks so  _ fond _ , he can't help but shiver. "Though I never held it, it must be a thing of utter power, feelings so strong even one as willful as the young Detective had no choice but to leave it behind. And it holds all his secrets, his impulses, his instincts. How marvelous."

Damian tenses, readying himself. He'd die fighting before allowing his grandfather to touch Drake's soul. He had left it with  _ him _ , and even if his intention wasn't for it to be safe or cherished, it was exactly what Damian had been doing, what he intends to keep doing until his last breath, or until Drake asks for it back.

It must show on his face, because his grandfather merely waves a hand.

"Don't look so stern, grandson. Even if I wrenched it out of your cold, dead hands, it'd do me no good. For a soul to give off the feelings of it's owner, it must be freely given. A stolen soul is no more useful than a piece of jewellery," the venom green of Ra's eyes had a wistful light, "though this one is of a particularly beautiful kind, isn't it?"

Silence overtook them for a few seconds. Despite the reassurance, Damian didn't relax his stance.

"Will you tell me about Drake's intentions, grandfather?" he forced his voice to remain calm, steady, as if it didn't matter either way.

"I don't think the young Detective himself knows that, Damian. But if you ask why he's here, I can only tell you what motivations I know, and those are financial in nature."

"...financial?"

"World trotting without leaving a trace and crime fighting are both expensive activities. Timothy needs, crudely speaking, an income source, and I'm happy to provide as long as he doesn't turn the focus of his attention towards my activities. His company is also a luxurious pleasure I'll gladly buy while he's willing to sell it."

A pause while grandfather drank some more, though it was doubtlessly a psychological attack, intended to give him time to think about what was implied.

Timothy's loyalty was a fickle thing, now that he had no soul to weight him down. He was still fighting the good fight, but his encounter with Todd had taught them he was willing and ready to fight mercilessly to get his way. And grandfather, as his biggest endorser, was more likely to be able to buy his help than the bats to ask for it.

Wordless threat made, the older man kept talking. "As of right now, he needed someplace to recuperate from his fight with the Red Hood two weeks ago, and I offered this place. He has my resources at his disposal, and I don't doubt he'll leave soon with full pockets. In the meantime, I know his exact geographical location, something I'm sure you're aware how difficult it is to do, and have the indulging company of someone whose conversation doesn't make me wish I was brain dead, which is even harder to achieve."

Damian's fingers ached for the little soul he was so used to fiddle with, but he forced them to still. Even after what he said, Damian wouldn't trust his grandfather to no snatch it out of his hand if he caught sight of it.

The conversation seemed to be getting closer to its end, but a thought occurred him that his grandfather, with all his years, probably had a better understanding of souls and their workings than anyone else. He needed to try.

"Why did Drake's soul react that way when I saw him? Until now, it only gave me the feelings I believe he would have in a given situation, or reacted to my own feelings. This time it was… different."

Ra's seemed amused by his attempt, enough to answer at least.

"It's the proximity. A soul's core isn't meant to completely leave it's owner. Even though some historical lovers were known to interchange them, as they lived together, the souls still reached out to their original holders and the connection was never severed. There's also the fact that these lovers had the other's soul to compense, as to speak. It guided them where their own soul failed to."

Again, Damian read between the lines. This wasn't Drake's case, he didn't have anything to fill his soul’s place.

He felt it surge with something akin to desperation and defiance, and Damian's own rose to the feeling. They'd find a way, even if Drake choose to reject his own soul back. He was right  _ there _ , in the same building as him for the first time in years, he could/

"And now, grandson, I ask you to leave. The detective surely doesn't want to meet you here, and if he thinks I betrayed our pact by inviting you, future exchanges between us would be harder to accomplish." Calmly, Ra's motioned to a servant, who brought forth a wooden box. "I believe this is payment enough for your compliance."

Suddenly, painfully, Damian was reminded of his reason to be on the Australian base on the first place. He felt his insides go cold.

Damn it all to hell. 

Jon. 

He was here for Jon.

Ra’s hand softly stroke the box’s lid, before opening it to reveal a shiny orange rock, unassuming to anyone unaware of its power.

"This was what you were looking for, wasn’t it? The mineral needed to save your dying friend’s life, that very few people on Earth posses, would certainly be enough to drive you to try and steal from one as dangerous as myself. Of course, if you’d prefer to take your chances talking to Timothy and refusing my benevolent offer, feel free to search for one of those others owners of it, though I’m sure your dear superboy would be long dead by the time you found it and brought it to him."

Both souls in Damian’s possession ached while he walked out of the hidden castle, towards where he had left his stolen plane. Yearning and desperation, his and Timothy’s let hot dents of pain on his chest, like a very deep scratch by Catwoman when at her most scorned with Batman.

It was so difficult to leave, but it would have been impossible to stay. He was childish in his desire to see Timothy again, to speak to him, to try and win him back to their side, but a developing romantic emotion wasn’t more important than his best friend’s life.

Though Jon owed him a big one, this time.

  
  


\----.-----

  
  


14, soon 15 - 20

"Happy birthday, Timothy", he mutters to himself, shiny blue soul dancing between his fingers with the ease of practice. It goes unheard by the rest of his clan, every bat in the room hyperfocused on the screens displaying different catastrophes around the world. "I hope it won’t be your last."

Drake was probably fine. Even if thousands had died in the last few days of this surprise armageddon, he was too smart, too skilled, too  _ good  _ to simply let that take his life. If Damian’s and Todd’s best efforts weren’t enough to bring him down, he doubts that whatever fuckery this was would be.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t worried, though.

"Batman", panted Superman through his communicator. On the screen displaying Luisiana, a red and blue blur worked on getting hundreds of civilians out of a mall currently on fire. "We have a situation here."

"There and everywhere else, Kal", growled father, the lack of sleep adding to the drop of his voice. No one had gotten much rest lately, not while the reason for this apparent end of the world remained a mystery. "Diana, how are things on your end?" 

On another screen, Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl were fighting side by side what appeared to be zombies. Damian had long given up on understanding the situation.

The Amazonian’s war cry was enough answer. 

"Contact me after you’re done there, I’ll direct you to your next objective." A wave of his hand and his conversation with the Princess was muted. Another movement and Green Lantern’s channel was open. "Give me good news about the Lantern Corps. Are they coming to our aid?"

By Father’s right, Nightwing had his own set of heroes to coordinate, every Titan past or present under his command. Red Hood, Batwoman, Bat Girl, Black Bat, The Signal and the Birds of Prey were currently on the field, under Oracle’s guidance. Damian himself had just gotten back from where he was taking care of his city, overworked since Gotham’s other vigilantes were dealing with this end of mankind situation and thus giving their criminals wide breath. Robin’s job in this mess was to keep their streets as clean as possible, taking advantage of school being cancelled until the world either ended or was saved to spend even more time patrolling.

It was a mess. An utter, complete mess. Something needed to change. Dealing with this catastrophes as they came was well and good short term, but it was non stop, and the heroes, even united and coordinated by the Bats, were starting to show some strain.

Damian made a fist around the shiny little orb, searching for it’s warmth to chase away the cold dread at the bottom of his stomach. The soul gave something akin to encouragement, but it was-- distracted, if a soul could ever be that. Expectant. It had been like that since this whole disaster started, and if he weren’t so distracted by literally everything, he’d be going crazy from curiosity.

Finishing the lukewarm tea Alfred had brought down to help ease the transition from Robin to Damian, he let his mind wander again, listening with one ear to both heroes in front of him, taking in the tired slouch of their shoulders. Besides coordinating everyone, Father had been trying to find some answer or solution, and the repetitive failure was taking its own troll on him. Nightwing, ever the Bat first Man and biggest emotional supporter, was likely sharing on it’s burden. He hadn’t seen Brown nor his sister in two days now, and the others in even longer, but he knew their voices and mannerisms enough to read between the lines during their nightly reports via comm; they were all on the end of their rope.

Something called his attention from the corner of his eye, dragging him back to full alertness. A little message warning on one of the least used monitors, a little behind where Father stood and thus not easily seen to him.

He blinked. It was a video call request. Who on their right mind would try and contact them with the world literally falling apart?

The soul almost fell from his fingers in it’s excitement and his throat closed. He knew that feeling.

"Computer, accept call", he commanded, feeling breathless. It gained him the attention of both his mentors, who stopped mid sentence to look over their shoulders to him, just in time to catch the exact moment Timothy appeared on screen.

He looked… healthy. His skin wasn’t as pale as he remembers from years back, no signs of insomnia under his eyes, hair combed and falling softly against his checks. He was leaning back against a couch, one arm wrapped around the back of it in a laid back manner, the position making the fabric of his blue button down cling to his well toned arms. There was something irreverent in the way he sat, a challenge in the tilt of his chin, an impossibly cooky calmness.

Damian would’ve been blown away by such beauty, if not for the empty eyes. He has seen Timothy in pictures of his younger years, happy and thriving, with his icy blue eyes shining and alive. This version of him couldn’t compare to the real deal, stunning as it was.

Still, from a purely objective standpoint… Damn. This was a very inappropriate moment for him to notice it, but damn. 

Was this what Todd called a sexual awakening? It might have been, despite how strongly he hoped it wasn’t; it’d be really ill timed, but that was the bats’ luck.

"Well, this is awkward", spoke Timothy after a full minute went by without anyone speaking. Father’s face was unreadable, as it tended to be whenever a matter involved his heart, but Grayson looked like someone that knows they are having some kind of hallucination but desires desperately it were true.

"Timmy", called Grayson, heart at his sleeve. The exhaustion that had been building on the slope of his shoulders seemed to vanish at the sight of his long lost brother, a relieved sigh escaping his dry lips as he fully turned to face the monitor. Damian couldn’t relate; this was far from relaxing to his poor, excited heart. The tiny soul seemed to say ‘same’.

His oldest’ voice was what Father’s brain apparently needed to reboot. He raised a hand, silencing all monitors around them, except the one that mattered now. In the midst of such a world wide destruction, and with the air as emotionally charged as it was, Timothy’s calmness was baffling.

"Is that Titan’s tower?", asked abruptly father, which drew the rest of Timothy’s background to his attention and… huh. It was. What the hell?

Timothy raised an eyebrow.

"Nice to see you too, B. Is that a new cowl? It really brings out your natural brooder, congratulations. "

"Timmy/"

The utter heartbreak in Grayson’s voice made the soul still between Damian’s fingers to twitch painfully, but the man on the screen barely spared his former mentor and friend a look.

"Yes, this is the Tower. No, most titans don’t know I’m here, just Conner as he gave me access on the first place. Yes, we kept in touch after I went away, because the fucker is unfair and can track my heartbeat. No, he won’t ever tell you my location, we have a deal; he doesn’t rat me out, I don’t put him into a coma to keep him and the other two from following me around. Yes, like I would have done with Jason if I weren’t in such a time crunch. No, I’m no criminal. No, I haven't killed anyone this past years, but as you could have guessed, my morals are as good as gone now so I’m not against a little brutality when dealing with an issue. Does that answer all your questions? Can we move on on the important, end of the world thing? This isn’t a social call."

Both Father and Grayson seemed blindsided by such a direct approach, but Damian had expected it, and the icy orb was demanding him to try and gather more information.

"I hacked the Titans, I would have known if they were aware of you."

He didn’t think this through. Directly addressing Drake made him focus his attention on him, and Damian wasn’t exactly ready for it.

"They come to me in person. Nothing for you to track. I allow them to follow me around for some days, they like to act as my moral compasses, they hug me for hours and then it’s goodbye for a few weeks. Rinse, repeat. It’s a nice system and they aren’t as annoying as they could be, so I don’t stop it. Apocalypse situation, anyone? Can we maybe focus on that? If you guys need a moment, I can hang up and go deal with it myself/"

"No!", echoed both Batman and Nightwing. Damian’s souls (both of them) silently agreed with the sentiment. Who knows how long it’d be until they got a hold of him again.

Drake seemed amused, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned forward to reach the holographic keyboard in front of him and set to work, bringing up different blueprints, records and strategies.

"Now, as you probably already guessed, we are dealing with aliens here. A very powerful, but vulnerable kind. Here's what I’ve got…"

No more than five hours later, the week long hell they’ve gone through was done with. All thanks to a barely legal man that after a few days of disasters decided to bite the bullet and call them, but who hang up the moment his plans were set in motion. 

The second they were clear, Father and Grayson jumped into the Jet. Damian declined, not because he didn’t want to see Drake, but because he was sure he’d be long gone from the Tower by their arrival. Especially if, as they learned today, he still had his three metas at his beck and call. And, he recalled, Grandfather.

On his way to his bedroom he caught sight of Brown and Cain, huddled together on a couch. 

Stephanie’s locket was almost completely black, only small specs of blue shining through. In comparison, Cassandra’s compass looked like the sky, clear and beautiful, with only the barest hints of darkness seeping slowly into it as the night fell.

The rest of the way to his bed, he clenched the icy blue soul as tightly as he could without breaking his own hand.

While it retained its color, there would still be time.

  
\----.----  
  


15 - 20

The last couple of months had been easier for Damian’s mission, and harder for his soul. Knowing that the key to track Drake laid with his friends, and with more free time than his other family members, he enjoyed an unique position of having the occasion and the resources to follow the metas to Timothy’s location, whenever they went to him. Jon was a loyal and useful friend, and had no issues on flying Damian someplace at the drop of a hat, on top of covering for him with his family. Grayson seemed elated at the concept of Damian spending so much time with his friend, so he made it his mission to keep Father off his back, which worked just fine for him and his mission.

His damn feelings, on the other hand, were a mess.

This was the sixth time Damian had followed one of the former Young Justice (Kon El, today) to Drake’s hiding place. This seemed to be a short-ish visit, a few hours of the super complaining about college while Drake steadily worked his way through a underground drug trafficking ring. The young vigilante himself had merely answered with ‘hmm’s and ‘aahh’s, according to Jon, but it didn’t seem to deter the meta. 

Damian was just sitting on a close by rooftop ledge, waiting until Drake left the building to get a last glimpse of him before leaving for Gotham, when Jon stopped mid sentence and tilted his head the way he did when he was focusing on hearing something. Then, without explanation, he left.

He didn’t even had the time to wonder about his sudden departure, when a soft touch to his shoulder had him drawing his sword and jumping into defensive position.

It was Timothy.

Damian didn’t lower his guard.

Timothy smiled, approvingly. The little soul at his pouch seemed to echo on the feeling.

"Jason didn’t view me as much of a threat", he said conversationally, walking around Damian to join him at his sitting perch, long, slim legs moving back and forth over the edge, weight resting on his hands behind his back. "That’s what gave me such a clear shot at kicking his ass, but it doesn’t mean it wasn’t offensive. You can relax though, I don’t have a reason to hurt you."

It wasn’t a ‘I don’t want to’ nor a ‘I won’t’, and that’s why Damian believed it; if given a reason, Drake wouldn’t be against fighting him. It was just that he didn’t have one right then and there.

"Why approach me?", he asked, shoulders slowly losing their tension. He didn’t put his sword away, though.

"This is the sixth time you’ve tracked me down", explained the man, and he felt his heart do a jump on his chest; he wasn’t aware Drake knew. "And after the third, I realized it wasn’t for Daddy or Daddy two-point-oh. You never called anyone, never gave my location away, didn't even try to talk to me. So, I...grew curious. Asked Kon to call your little friend away so we might have a chat. Besides, "Timothy looked sideways to Damian and a little smirk curved his rosy lips, "it’s your birthday. Figured it was as good a occasion as any to indulge you. So I’m here, baby bat. What do you want with me?"

Damian’s traitious brain had some suggestions, but he sternly pushed them all out of his mind, to the back of his subconscious for future Damian to deal with. This wasn’t the man he wanted, anyway; not with those empty eyes.

"Your soul/", he started. 

Timothy’s entire body coiled up, as if ready for a fight, and Damian felt himself tensing in response. 

"Don’t even say it. I don’t want it back, won’t accept it. If you don’t want to carry it around any longer, throw it into Atlantis for all I care. Just… don’t bother me with that shit, or your new pastime of stalking me will be cut short."

"I wasn’t/!"

"Dress it as whatever you want baby bat, but I know the score, one stalker to another."

Desperate for a change in the conversation, he went back to his mental list of questions for Drake.

"If… If you don’t want it back."

"I don't."

"Then, what is your goal? What… what are you doing? You keep fighting Father’s fight, seeing to his Mission…"

"Woah, hey. Just because your Father likes to call it his, doesn’t mean that the Mission belongs to him. I wanted to help people long before I was pseudo adopted into your little cult. Actually, the whole reason I got into it, was because your Dad needed a therapist and coping mechanism and moral compass all rolled into one, but as the picky lil brat he was, he wouldn’t take one unless it was twelve years old, with blue eyes and black hair and no parental figures whatsoever. Little me was like catnip for him, and I was just a kid that wanted to help."

Damian… didn’t really had an answer for that.

"That being said, that was true for past-me. As I am now, I couldn’t care less about the ‘good fight’. Any fight would do for me. If I’m still saving people, it’s merely because past-me trained this body beyond what’s healthy to make it virtually impossible for me to ignore evil doers. It’s basically muscle memory, or a vice."

"Muscle… memory? How so?"

Timothy hummed, eyes going up as he searched for the right words.

"If I don’t fight crime, I start getting twitchy, and feeling odd, and it’s just uncomfortable. Without soul, I lack motivation and function because of needs. I’m thirsty, I drink. I’m hungry, I eat. I’tired, I sleep. I’m like a baby, impulses are all that matter to me. Except for coffee, because my body goes through literal withdrawal when it goes long without it, and crime fighting. Also the reason why I find it hard to fight against those three metas that keep following me around; my body is just used to go into ‘protect and care for’ mode when catching sight of them, it’s night to impossible to be aggressive. Or why I had no problem kicking Jason’s ass to kingdom come; I have a flight or fight reaction to him ingrained into me, and now, I chose to fight."

The small, hidden part of him that had hoped Drake retained some part of his soul (maybe a secret, maybe hurting?) was ruthlessly squished by the man's words. 

"Why did you help us, then, against the aliens? They weren't in your way, and you didn't get a fight out of it, merely gave us plans", tries, someway childishly.

He received a look that made him feel dumb. He wasn't used to it.

"I live on this planet too, you know. If it goes to shit, so do all of us. It was a matter of self preservation."

There was no denying any of that. Timothy’s eyes remainded empty, light amusement the only emotion flickering through his expression.

The tiny soul by his soul pouch gave the equivalent of an indignant cry to Damian.

_ ‘Get me back on my body. Give my emotions back to him. Fix this’ _ , it demanded.

_ ‘I don’t know how’ _ , he wanted to reply.

_ ‘Figure it out’ _ was the uncompromising answer. 

It was scared. Timothy’s soul was scared of what he had become, of what he’d continue to be without it, and it was begging Damian for help. This wasn’t about proving himself to father, or to Timothy, any longer. This was to help him; save him. Bring him back to what he was before.

He needed a plan, and time to develop it. 

Throat swallowing hard, he weighed his options. Contact with Timothy was needed, if a chance to return his soul was to be taken the moment it appeared.

Thinking back on all that was said, he felt an idea start to form.

"Would you mind if I sought you out sometimes? It’s… quiet here, and you aren’t as annoying a company as the rest of our family members can be."

" _ Your _ family, you mean."

"Be that as it might. You could help me with cases, and won’t care if a particular one is specially hard or dangerous. That kind of cold insight might be useful, and it’ll help calm your need of doing good, won’t it?"

He expected a denial, or negotiation. But of course Timothy merely shrugged.

"I told you before, I don’t care. About anything, really. Stay, go, do whatever, as long as you don’t get in my way or try to give me that shit back. If you can follow those two simple rules, we won’t have a problem."

Damian ignored the dryness of his voice, the hollowness of his eyes. Instead, his focus was poured into the feelings he got from the soul at his pouch.

Pride and anticipation. He was on the right track.

Fear. This path wouldn't be easy.

Gratitude. He was doing all of this for Timothy’s sake, nothing he’d gain from it.

And… a special kind of fondness. It wasn’t yet on par with the one he had felt for months every time the icy blue soul was in close proximity with Todd, but… it was getting there.

A hot flush of excitement went through him. 

He was going to do this, and do it right, and maybe… maybe Drake wouldn’t hate it by the end of it all.


	3. 16 - 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timothy’s eyes shone hatefully. It was the most beautiful shade of icy blue he had ever seen. Even if the emotion was such a dark one, they weren’t empty anymore.
> 
> "It’ll be over soon," he shushed, slowly sinking to his knees and bringing the man into his lap, almost engulfing him between arms and firm chest, as if to protect him from the pain that was coming from deep inside; distantly, he heard Kon and Jon’s voices as they approached, their concern obvious but unimportant at the moment, "you just have… a lot of emotional catching up to do."

**16 - 21**

  
  


The young man raised his eyes from the documents he was revising, merely glancing over Damian’s case files.

"Zsasz", was all he said, before going back to his own thing. 

Damian a year ago might have gotten mad, thinking Timothy was sprouting spur of the moment lies to get him to stop nagging him. He knew better now, that the man didn’t need more than a second of looking at his carefully collected evidence to make a verdict.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t curious, though.

"How?", he asked, giving the file a closer look, trying and failing to see what the other could. "He was at Arkham at the time of the crimes, there’s witnesses and video evidence."

Timothy didn’t seem to be paying attention to him any longer, answering by rote but not taking his empty eyes from his own work.

"Not Zsasz himself, but not a copycat either. This is the work of a lover, or someone romantically interested in the bastard. Could be a courting gift, a mean to attract his attention, or both. Look deeply into any woman…"

"Or man, or both, or neither", he felt compelled to add. Timothy shrugged, but his soul gave an approving humm.

"... or man, or both, or neither," the detective conceded, dropping his papers in favor of his coffee cup and tablet, "visiting him this last few months, or that could have benefited from any of Zsasz murders; maybe he unknowingly saved someone by killing their abuser or something like that, and they fell for him. Think Misa Amane from Death Note."

As he did any time Drake dropped a reference, Damian made a mental note to check this out. At least, “Death note” sounded more his style than the time he had to watch both Mean Girls movies.

"How do you know it’s a love interest and not, say, an apprentice?"

Without dropping his cup, and balancing the tablet against his legs where he was sitting on the couch, Timothy raised his other hand and pushed one of Damian’s papers across the coffee table towards him. One of the autopsy’s photos.

"The cuts. Zsasz usually makes them all across the body, picking certain places that would make his victims bleed to death as slowly and painfully as he feels like. These, instead, are focused on the chest area, almost circling the person’s heart. In this one, a victim that was murdered specifically on Valentine's day, the cuts are even closer to it, almost framing the heart."

"...I can see it", he muttered, eyes widening. After two weeks of useless tumbling around this case, it was only when he caved and went to Timothy for help that he finally had some possible lead on it. And, as every time he did this before, a few minutes was all he needed to figure it out and to point him in the right direction.

"I’d hurry, if I were you. The least thing Gotham needs is a new villian power couple, a “Harley and Joker” take two. It was just too good when she left him for Ivy, so don’t allow anyone else to take their places as the criminal lovers of the city."

Damian nodded and went back to his files on Zsasz, energies and will renewed. Timothy ignored him once again in favor of his own things, and silence enveloped them. He didn’t mind; the icy blue soul’s warm encouragement was all he needed.

\----.----

  
  


"It has grown", commented the older of the two, watching from the corner of his eye the souls on Damian’s lap. They had to fight some sea monsters at the beach, and sand had gotten into his pouch, so he stopped at the earliest chance to clean it up.

It was the first time Timothy saw his soul in years. Damian had being careful to not take it out around him, scared it might spook the man into leaving.

If anything, he seemed curious.

"It has?", he asked, dropping his own back on its hiding place and rising the other to eye level. "It still fits in my palm the same way it always did."

Timothy rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, and your hand is the exact size it was when you were twelve? Brat, you are already taller than me- wipe that smile off your face, we both knew this day would come. You grew, and if it still fits the same, it’s only logical that it did as well. You probably didn’t notice because you see it all the time, and since your soul has also grown, there’s no sure way for you to compare them and realize it."

Amazed, and more than a little happy, Damian examined it closer. He was right, of course; now that it was brought to his attention, he couldn’t unsee it.

"A soul grows and thrives on multiple things," kept going the other, shaking his head to get as much sand as possible off his hair, "both positive or negative."

Damian knew this, has seen the sheer size of the Joker’s rotten soul, doubled after his latest killing spree: it fed on the pain of his victims. It was a disgusting sight, but one that proved just how different the psychopaths they fought saw life, and how unlikely it was they’d ever stop.

"And in this case?", he asked, refraining himself from saying ‘your’ instead of ‘this’.

A shrug. "If I had to guess, love, like most people’s. It was what always healed me, time and time again, growing up; love for my friends, parents, family, people I liked… It started to shrunk when half the people I cared for died, and the other half didn’t seem to want my feelings nor return them. Poor, past-me’s soul was starved to death. You seem to have it well fed, tough."

It was said tonelessly, but Damian felt two sizes taller all the same. The soul at hand seemed to shine in front of his eyes (although it was probably just the sun’s reflection), and a quick succession of images flashed across his eyes.

Kon El, Bart Allen, Cassie Sandsmark and a few other heroes he recognized from Drake’s old Young Justice photos, going out of their way to seek him out and keep him company in his self imposed soulless exile.

Grayson, Father and Todd sitting quietly at the Cave’s Red Robin memorial (with cracked glass; The Red Hood hadn’t reacted well the first time he saw it), sharing stories of the man as they knew him: brother, son, childhood friend.

Cain and Brown, sitting back to back, holding the other’s soul shard; Brown delightedly absorbing the love Timothy had put in Cain’s icy blue compass, and the other carefully caressing the almost black locket, cocooning it in her hands, as if trying to breath emotions back into the almost empty thing.

Himself, tirelessly looking for information on the man years ago, following him around more recently. Taking hits for him during the times they worked together, doing his best to keep Grandfather away, sneakily replacing his coffee for decaf.

_ (taking care of his body) _

Holding the precious icy blue orb in his palms, cradling it against his chest when sleeping or fondling with it between his fingers when troubled or distracted. Constant, tender touch. Never damaging it. Never leaving it alone. Never ignoring the feelings it sent his way.

_ (taking care of his soul) _

Timothy looks indifferent, typing away at his new phone (he changed them almost every day, no doubt to keep Oracle or Father from finding him), but his soul reacts beautifully to Damian’s thoughts.

Fed by love, indeed.

  
  


\-----.----

  
  


17 - 22

After he saved some children and comforted them during patrol, when he had (briefly) the upper hand against Cain in a spar, when he successfully talked Todd down from blowing up a building, when he stood firm against father in order to protect Jon, Colin and the rest of his friends from a scolding, when he tried (and failed) to help Alfred bake Grayson a cake for his birthday… each time, he would feel a tug from the not-so-little-anymore orb, and when he took it out of his pouch to inspect it, he’d always see a new, beautiful green and gold spot slowly dying the area surrounding the core. 

Little specks of his colours, appearing here and there at times that seemed random to him, but evidently were appreciated by Drake’s soul. 

It scared him so badly he could barely sleep without nightmares. Because, even if it meant tentatively good things (he was leaving a mark on Timothy where not even Todd had reached, was securing himself a way into his heart), it also meant a change. 

What if, after all his efforts, this made impossible for Drake's soul to fit into his body after all?

After the soulless man had pointed it out for him, he begun to notice things. Not only the suddenly appearing, breathtaking looking spots on the icy blue sea of his soul, but how it seemed to shine more with each passing moment, how the feelings it gave off were more intense (it had come as a surprise; he would never had guessed they were muted before, until he was almost blown away by the soul’s rage after an encounter with Deathstroke left Nightwing at death’s doors), how the small little bumps and dents in it were filled out as the soul grew, healthier and prettier. 

It had grown so full of feelings, so strong, he feared. What if, even if he got Timothy to take it back, his body couldn't accept it due to its changes? Or what if the accumulated feelings were too much for him to take, to process? He certainly had some emotional baggage to catch up to, and he had little to no information on soulless people accepting their core back to properly predict what outcome they might face.

He was scared by the changes. He was excited about his colours slowly taking space into Timothy’s soul. He couldn’t rest properly anymore.

The soul was a faithful companion on his long, sleepless nights. It spoke to him, in a language of feelings and abstract-like images he had come to learn with the years. It returned his love and care tenfold, in a way he knew only Drake, with his seemingly unending flow of emotions, could do.

A part of him (Wayne, hero, martyr) didn’t believe himself deserving of it. None on his family, with maybe Cain and Pennyworth as the exceptions, were worth the unconditional trust and loyalty Timothy bestowed upon them.

The part that was purely Al Ghul (proud, selfish, greedy) asked for  _ moremoremore _ , and only  _ himhimhim _ .

That didn’t help his insomnia.

Neither did Timothy’s warm comfort.

The feelings, on both ends, only grew.

  
  


\----.----

  
  


When he finally gathered courage and went to the source, Timothy himself, to show him the changes on the orb, the man only hummed, undeterred in his task of cleaning the kitchennet of this small place he was using for the week. They were somewhere in Singapore, and Damian could see the sea from the living room window.

"It’s such a shame, really", he spoke, as his hands worked steadily and with the ease of familiarity on making both coffee and Damian’s favorite tea. Never let it be said he didn’t know how to host. Another muscle memory skill, no doubt.

  
  


"What is?"

"You fell victim to Robin’s Third Law. I thought you might have been excepted from it, but obviously not. So sad. If I had an Alexa, I’d have her play sad violin tunes."

Ignoring the last bit, he took his eyes from where he was comparing the blue and green souls (his and Drake’s), and glanced in his direction.

"Third Law?"

He never heard of it before. He would remember if Father or Grayson told him about it.

"Hmm", he nodded, brining a tray with the beverages and cookies to the low table, taking his seat in front of Damian, back to the window (whether this was trust in him to watch out for him in case they were attacked, or he simply didn’t care, he didn’t know). "It’s a theory I developed while Stephanie was Robin, and you only confirmed it for me. First Law: Each Robin shall have his or her Batgirl. Dick and Jason had Barbara, me and Steph (though very briefly on her case) had Cass, and you currently have Steph. Second Law: Each Robin will have either a Super, a Speedster, or both, as his or her friend and teammate. Dick had Wally, Jason Bizzarro, I had both Kon and Bart, Steph teamed up with Kara for a while there, and you have Jon."

Blinking rapidly, he nodded. It- it was too much of a coincidence. Timothy’s claims, as always, had their merit, no matter how far fetched it seemed to have three unescapable facts following the wearer of the Robin mantle.

"And the Third Law?"

"Each Robin will fall in love with their predecessor, without a happy ending."

That stopped him cold, tea cup halfway to his mouth.

He knew?

It must have shown on his face, because the man rolled his eyes.

"Just because I don’t have feelings of my own any longer doesn’t mean I can’t recognize them on someone else. I told you, the soul that belonged to me", he nods in the direction of Damian’s lap, where he had placed the soul while they eat, "thrived in love. It’s almost the size it was back then, when I was young, idealistic and stupid."

A sip of coffee. Timothy’s soul reached out tentatively, it’s metaphorical touch brushing Damian’s own, a wave of lamenting and corresponding. He didn’t want to focus on what it meant.

"Dick loved the boy he was, the little Robin his parents raised, that flew on the trapeze without a care on the world. That kid died the night his parents fell. Jason most likely had a crush on Dick back when he was Robin, though the way he was treated by him back then killed that tentative love. I know, because I studied him for years, until I learned everything there was to learn about my predecessor and friend."

Damian listened, but half his mind was on the unrelenting wave of feelings Timothy’s soul was sending his. There was a message there, but he was way too overwhelmed to understand it.

"Myself, well, since you have that thing, "he pointed to Damian’s lap, then shrugged, "you must know about my hopeless, tortuous love for the bastard. You know, even though past me trained himself with a flight or fight response to him, it still took me some battle time to go for the fight one? My body couldn’t seem to settle into the idea of hurting him", he sighed, shaking his head. "Stupid little brat."

"Th-then… What about… Brown did have you. Her... her love didn’t have a tragedy following."

TImothy merely raised an eyebrow.

"Even before she faked her death, I was kind of an asshole with her, always demanding she hang up the cape. Then, when she came back, I was so pissed and betrayed, I couldn’t even look in her direction as much as I couldn’t take my eyes away; from what I remember, it was hell. I’m pretty sure a part of her will always love past me, just like him would always love her a bit, but they’re never getting back to what they were. There’s just too much polluted water under the bridge."

"Her shard is almost completely black and empty", he muttered, eyes dragged against his will to the Icy blue (and green and gold, now) soul.

Timothy laded his head. "Doesn’t surprise me. Kon, Bart and Cassie all have theirs in almost perfect shape, though some spots here and there are losing their colours. They were absolutely freaked out when it started to happen, came straight to me to yell about friendship, bonds and shit like that. I’m guessing both Cass and Alfred’s pieces are the same", at Damian’s reluctant nod, he smirked; "about time, too."

Damian didn’t comment on it, because he was well aware of how much Drake wished for all his soul shards to go completely null. When that happened, his soul would have definitely died, no take backs. 

There was also the matter of the soul core, in Damian’s possession, that kept on thriving and growing, but Drake didn’t seem too worried about it, which scared Damian in turn. 

"And, lastly, young current Robin. In love", he smirked, "ah, no,  _ corresponded  _ love, judging by the green spots, with his predecessor. Tough luck. The soul might have feelings for you, but the body certainly doesn’t (muscle memory from back then is a bitch, isn’t it?), and those by themselves are not enough, are they? Such a tragedy."

He smirked while talking, empty eyes not really caring about Damian’s crushed heart. 

He hated him, a little, just then. Not nearly as much as he loved him, sadly.

  
  


\----.----

  
  
  


Watching him through the monitors of the cave was such a normal thing for him to do, it no longer called to the attention of his family members. They just accepted it as one more of Damian’s oddities and moved on. 

Sometimes, Grayson or Todd would stop by. They would comment on some sparring mistake he made, or marvel at the mission report when Drake’s explanation on the thought process that drove him to solve it was beyond amazing, longing and pain lacing their words. 

Cain and Brown rarely accompanied him, but when they did, it was their choice on what to watch, and more often than not it was some funny, endearing thing, like Drake’s comm quips, or mask recordings on the cheesy puns he threw to his enemies.

Father never stayed, once Damian took a seat by the Batcomputer. It was beyond frustrating, his decision to pretend his son was dead, from the memorial to avoiding all talk of him unless forced. Timothy was out there, and Damian held in his pouch the answer to his predicament, but no, Father would sooner think him dead than deal with the emotional rollercoaster Damian was currently riding.

Timothy defied death itself when everyone else thought Father dead. He went toe to toe with a devil like his Grandfather, and came out on top, for him. It angered him, not seeing such devotion returned. Todd’s death and later criminal career had undoubtedly messed with his emotional bonds with all his children, but this was just ridiculous. They fought over it, often. They fought a lot, these days; his older siblings said it was a rite of passage, to reach that moment when Robin was just done with Batman’s shit.

"Master Damian, you never showed up for supper. I took the liberty of bringing some leftovers for you to snack on here."

Lost as he was, both in thought and in footage of Timothy reaching a compromise with Poison Ivy, he had to repress a startled jump; it would be unbecoming of him, with all his training. Though, Pennyworth probably knew anyway. He always did.

"Thank you", he nodded, accepting the plate stacked with sandwiches. The old butler left a cool glass of water by the computer’s keyboard, and his eyes went up to the image of Timothy returning home after another successful mission. His tired eyes seemed to soften.

"How is Master Timothy fearing, young sir?"

As sure as he was that everyone suspected him, only Alfred directly addressed the fact that Damian went to his old charge, time and time again. Even so, when he asked for “Master Timothy”, he always referred to the same.

Wordlessly, one hand holding a sandwich, he retrieved the soul next to his from the pouch. The spots weren’t bigger than last time, but more numerous.

One finger softly caressed the orb. He wouldn’t feel it, but Damian could, and it always warmed him the way Timothy’s soul reacted to the old butler’s touch.

"To think I let a young man under my care to go starved...", muttered the man. He hadn’t taken well when Damian confied on him the reason why the blue orb used to be so little.

"It was a shared mistake, Pennyworth. If anything," he nodded towards the man’s bowtie, where the small icy blue shard still shone, "it’s evident how you -and Cain- were far from the worst perpetrators. The fault lies on the rest of us."

The man sighed. "It’s such a shame, truly. Master Timothy was such a bright, full of life young man… his heart might have been naive, but it rarely steered him wrong."

While he spoke, the man went around Damian, reaching for the keyboard. A few clicks later, and a video file he never saw before was brought forth. Timothy’s young face appeared on the screen, and Damian paused, softly putting his glass back down.

On screen, his predecessor, down to his old Robin pants and no shirt, was finishing a training routine on the mats.This one, he didn’t recognize.

"I searched every bit of information on Drake, how…?"

As he asked, another figure appeared on screen, this time… an odd version of Nightwing. He started needling Timothy (the file lacked audio), seemingly asking for something the other kid wasn’t willing to provide. He kept shaking his head.

"I have every bit of photographic evidence of Master Richard’s… most questionable clothing choices password protected, least he finds a way to get rid of all of it. It’s for posterity’s sake, you understand? And to maybe help refrain him from trying his hand at “improvising a new suit” ever again."

Looking at his mentor’s mullet hair and deep v-neck, he can’t exactly bedrugde Alfred his counter measures. He’s feeling shame just by looking at a video, can’t even imagine what living through that must have been for the poor butler.

"Grayson’s fashion sense is sadly lacking, isn’t it?"

"I wouldn’t call that fashion, Master Damian, nor sense. One could forgive and forget the first Robin suit, a circus child in need of colour and reminders of home. But this?" A stiff nod to the screen. "This makes me worry for any children he might have."

"I’ve been keeping him away from orphanages", he assures the old man, because at this point, it was a two on two battle, him and Pennyworth against Father and Grayson and their inability to keep their greedy paternal paws off of possible new family members.

"Good lad."

In silence, they watch as Nightwing goes off screen, returning later in civies. One would think  _ anything  _ would have been less of an eye sore, but the bright green pants, red sneakers and yellow shirt aren’t so much better than glitter and feathers in a skintight suit.

Shockingly, though, Timothy-on-screen seems to disagree. Graysons’ renewed efforts at convincing him of whatever he wanted bore fruits, and soon enough, both vigilantes left the scene. Automatically, the video started to reproduce again, on a loop.

Alfred hummed, taking back the empty tray. "I would highly recommend you went upstairs to try and sleep, young Master. Your eyebags are two thirds the size Master Tim’s used to be, and that’s worrying on its own."

He wanted to protest, but the look on the old man’s face made him reconsider. There was very little any of them could do to repay Alfred for everything he did for the family. Easing his concern was just a start.

Silently, he closed the files he was revising and walked side by side with the butler. 

"I wonder what was what Grayson said, to make Timothy concede", he commented, while they slowly hailed back to the Manor.

"Nothing of great importance," was his answer. "Master Timothy’s will is a force to reckon, but he always found Robin to be his Achilles’ heel. The moment Master Dick changed into clothes the colour of his first suit, poor lad had lost the battle."

The words kept spinning in his head, even after he went to bed.

It wasn’t a plan, not even the beginnings of one, and it lacked all the finesse and detail attention one of Timothy’s would have, but it was more than he had yesterday. 

A start.

  
  


\----.----

  
  


He went to Kent with his idea. Conner. Kon El.

(Not Superboy. Not  _ his  _ Superboy, at least; just like he wasn’t  _ his  _ Robin)

He choose him, because he could fly them somewhere away from his Grandfather's ears. Because he was better at lying than the Impulse, and less noble and forthcoming than Wonder Girl. He trusted him more than he did Timothy’s other Young Justice old teammates.

But, more importantly, he knew Kent would be ready and willing to do whatever it took to get Drake back.

"You know it’s gonna hurt him", the clone pointed out, face serious and stony. He was already preparing himself mentally for the backslash of what they were going to do. His hand had raised up to the Icy blue earring. Out of everyone else, Cain and Pennyworth included, his soul shard was the brightest; his love and loyalty to Timothy never once wavered.

The soul in his pouch gave a warm wave of fondness. He suspects that, during Drake’s darkest hours, his best friend’s love was what kept the little orb fed. Even now, he felt it strengthen under Kent’s undying devotion.

"I know."

There was no question it would. If they succeeded, the onslaught of feelings would be far too much for anyone to handle. Timothy, awesome as he was in every other field, would not be the exception.

"He’s probably gonna hate me."

"No", he shakes his head, echoing on Timothy’s soul sentiments. "He never could. You and the others… he’s weak to you. That’s why I’m asking for your help. I need you there first, to soften him up to the idea. Make him more… receptive."

A pause. Then:

"It’s me he’s going to hate."

"At first, for sure," the easy admission, from the mouth of someone as well (or better) versed in the mysteries and wonders of one Timothy Drake, hurt; then, the man continued, "but I can promise you, it won’t stay in the way of your little love story for long. He will cave soon enough."

Startled, he looked into the meta’s eyes; mischief, but a shade of seriousness. He wasn’t lying.

"There is no love story. Only redemption for me, and a chance at happiness for him."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, you bats are all for ‘what’s right’ and ‘emotions and personal life are for the weak’. I’m just calling it like I see it, dude, and anyone can see how you look when you talk about him. And, honestly? It’s a little creepy, Edward Cullen style, the way you spent your entire teenagedhood pining after someone without actually interacting with him for almost half of it."

Multiple reactions raced through his mind. Embarrassment, denial, rage…

...resignation.

"I’m not worthy of his affections, not after everything. And even if I was, who’s to say the feelings his soul has now will be the same once it’s back with its rightful owner?"

Kon El just sighed, something that sounded like ‘emotionally stunted bats’, and carefully placed a hand on Damian’s shoulder. It was striking, realizing they were not so far in height now. He would never bulk up the way Superman’s clone had, but his body was closer to it than Timothy’s, or Grayson’s.

"I’ll let you in a secret. There’s one easy shortcut, straight to Tim’s heart. Though, maybe ‘straight’ isn’t the right word in this case."

"Shut up."

A smile. "Trust me on this one. You’re already using that way, even if you don’t realize it -he clasped his hand tighter, and then released him- Well, gotta go. Showtime is in two days, right? Have to be ready."

He was already taking off, when Damian’s brain to mouth filter seemed to break and he blurted out.

"What is this shortcut?"

Still flying, the meta spin in place to face him, moving backwards. His smile was one part wistful, two parts sad.

"The fastest way for Tim to love you? Love him back. He’s a sucker for people giving him the barest scraps of affection, it would be impossible for him to resist someone wholeheartedly loving him."

  
  


\----.----

  
  


18 - 23

All fell into place on Damian’s birthday.

The morning, he couldn’t escape his family. Grayson cried, of course, and Father had his constipated-emotionally confused face on. Todd and Brown promised to take him to a bar, careful to make that claim where Pennyworth couldn’t hear them. Him and Cain were in charge of the cake (Cassandra’s latest focus of attention had been bakery, and she wanted to participate), and Damian spent half the day surrounded by their love and support. 

As promised, Jon came by mid afternoon to take him to ‘celebrate together’. He asked his family to wait for him awake, even if he came past the time patrol usually started. An odd request, but since he had asked for so little for his birthday, they couldn’t help but agree, Barbara going so far as to have The Birds of Prey ready to cover for them.

It was a long flight to Uruguay, but it was needed. He had taken note on how Drake was, more often than not, found on some seaside location. According to Grayson (and the multiple mission reports he had read on the subject), the tiniest Robin always seemed to like and take comfort on the beach. It had become a small compulsion, probably one he wasn’t even aware of, to stray to places surrounded by water.

The only stop they made, was for Damian to change civies for his suit. The Robin suit.

They found him sitting on the sand overlooking the calm afternoon waters, at La Pedrera Beach. Just where Damian asked him to met, where Kon had undoubtedly brought him a few minutes before. 

No one was around, thankfully. The less witnesses, the better.

Jon touched ground softly, smiling at Damian and taking off again, to wait with the older Superboy as planned. His friend’s eyes betrayed no nervousness, but he didn’t need to; Damian was nervous enough for both of them.

Steeling himself, he walked towards the smaller man and stood by his side. Silently, they both watched as the sun slowly sunk into the horizon. In ten more minutes, it’d be completely hidden. Damian wanted for everything to be done before then, as if the beauty of the sunset would counter the pain of what was to follow.

"Okay, Baby Bat, lay it on me. Why ask me to come here, all the way from Italy? I was having a blast, you know, catching those mafias one by one."

Even as he spoke, he didn’t look particularly bothered. Soulless as he was, he had no qualms on showing his displeasure. Right now, though, he looked as satisfied as he ever did since losing his soul. The morning catching criminals, noon with his best friend and afternoon at the beach seemed to have worked like a charm. He was at ease, no longer waiting for Damian to attack him, and when he looked up at him and saw him wearing his colors (for once his more muted pants having a green tint to it, resembling more his predecessor's old costume), surprise gave quick way to trust.

Alfred was right, as always. Robin seemed to be the key past Timothy’s defenses.

"It’s my birthday today," he informed the man, doing his best to not be so stiff, "and I want my gift."

A sharp laugh, devoid of feeling but humorous all the same, and Timothy stood, face to face with him, tilting his head to look him into the eye.

"My, my, what a spoiled prince. But whatever, I’m here already, and I already indulged you these last two years, letting you stay around and helping you with cases. What’s one more? I won’t take the soul back, though."

Damian shook his head.

"I don’t intend to return something of yours. I want to give something mine, for you to carry with yourself."

The smirk on his face turned utterly devious, and Timothy’s pale hands found perch on his shoulders.

"Such a daring man you have turned into", slowly, he leaned closer, standing on his tiptoes to reach Damian’s ear. "What do you want to give me, baby bat?" his warm breath caressed his face, and he had to shut his eyes tightly when he felt Timothy’s face getting even closer. "Maybe a kiss? It’ll be free of charge, even, just because I’m in such a good mood. I’ll still let you have the gift you had in mind, too."

Startled, he held the other man’s hips. The want that pushed viciously against his restrain left him dizzy, but his heart twisted and the pain brought him back to his senses, just before his lips -that he hadn’t even be aware he was parting- touched the other’s. 

Carefully, because he didn’t mean any harm and because of how hard it was, he pushed the man away.

"No."

"No? Despite how desperately you clearly want it?"

He clenched his fists, before slowly opening his hands and dragging them away from Timothy’s body. He opened his eyes again, looking down at the beautiful face, at those empty eyes. That sealed his decision.

"Not like this. Never like this."

He both regreted and was relieved by his words the moment he had uttered them.

A huff, and slim arms crossed over his chest. It helped a little, once the temptation was over. 

"Okay then, boring. What’s this gift you want? Wanna give me a necklace or something? You seem the possessive type."

Damian breathed in, deeply. This was the moment.

"Open your hand, please."

Eyes rolling over the drama, one hand on his hip, he stretched out the other one, palm up.

Bracing himself, Damian retrieved something from his pouch. Before he could second guess himself, he softly placed it on Timothy’s hand.

Deep, rich green. Shinning gold. A sea of those colors, with specks of icy blue floating around.

His own soul.

Timothy’s eyes went to the soul, the one that wasn’t his, and widened a little. Reflexively, he closed his fingers around the orb as much as he could. He was still being moved by the muscle memory, the compulsion of pleasing Robin.

A second later, tears started to endlessly flow, and he was screaming in pain. 

\----.----

For months, years, Damian had looked over him and saw two separate pieces of the same puzzle. Soul and body, beautiful on their own, but absolutely breathtaking if he only could put them together.

Now, the full picture stood in front of him. Despite its beauty, there were visible cracks where Damian had forced their ragged ends together, where he had to put his own soul as a filler between them.

Effective as it was, meshing two pieces, despite they belonging to the same puzzle, wasn’t the most gentle way to mend them.

They were bound to break a little, in order to fit.

"What have you done to me?!", demanded Timothy, hand clutching desperately at his chest (the other one still holding the gifted soul core), knees failing him. He would have crashed into the ground, if not for Damian’s firm arm around his waist.

He looked completely miserable, scared and shocked, which sent waves of both guilt and elation through him, because his Beloved was hurting because of him, but he was  _ feeling _ .

Timothy’s eyes shone hatefully. It was the most beautiful shade of icy blue he had ever seen. Even if the emotion was such a dark one, they weren’t empty anymore. 

"It’ll be over soon," he shushed, slowly sinking to his knees and bringing the man into his lap, almost engulfing him between arms and firm chest, as if to protect him from the pain that was coming from deep inside; distantly, he heard Kon and Jon’s voices as they approached, their concern obvious but unimportant at the moment, "you just have… a lot of emotional catching up to do."

"What is happening to me?! How?! This isn’t my soul! I shouldn’t be feeling my own emotions!",  he shrieked, his entire body shaking, and it was obvious he would have attacked Damian if not so focused on his own pain. Tears fell seemingly without his notice, and flickers of different emotions crossed his face. Guilt, anger, joy, sadness, rage, fondness, pain, guilt, anger, joy… Too quick to properly categorize, too sudden for Timothy to process them. Those were the emotions his soul had been storing this past few years, and it was all crashing down around him.

"I’m well connected to the soul you gave me. As thus, by using my own as a conduit and bonding us together, yours finally has a way to reach out to you, to do its job and make you feel. It’s muted, not as strong as it’d be if you had accepted your own soul back in the first place. I’m afraid that would have killed you."

"I feel like I’m dying now."

There was screaming. Then laughter. Panic and crying. Puking. Timothy’s hand left his chest to tug at his hair, plucking off strand, then going to his naked arms and leaving red indents with his nails. Softly, he took his fingers between his, TImothy’s back to his chest, if only to keep him from hurting himself any longer.

"I can’t breath. I can’t think. Why did you do this to me? I love you. No, I don’t. Fuck, I’m going crazy."

Daman tightened his arms around the man, shushing him, rocking back and forth on the ground, wishing desperately he could sooth his pain.

"It’ll pass."

Timothy whined, and cried, and smiled, and puked on the sand. 

"I hate you right now. I love you. I’m scared. I hate you again. I/"

"I know, love. I know."

When he passed out, still caught between tears and smiles, Damian couldn’t help but feel relief.


End file.
